Coonts, Stephen - Jake Grafton 7 - Cuba

by Cuba (lit)

  "Lab site Alpha is a dairy farm. The

  recon team checking out Bravo reports

  jackpot, but not many troopsno more than a dozen.

  The Osprey will be there in less than ten minutes."

  The admiral got up from his chair, stretched, rubbed

  the back of his neck. So far it was going better than

  he expected it would. So far. Nobody shot down

  yet, only one recon team lost...

  "Is someone monitoring Cuban radio and

  television?"

  "Yes, sir. The National Security Agency.

  They will keep us advised."

  "Ummm."

  "What are we going to do about silo six,

  Admiral"..."...Gil Pascal asked.

  "Nothing we can do. The assault team will have to go into the

  landing zone blind."

  "The Cuban Army may be waiting."

  "They mightea"...Jake Grafton agreed.

  He put on his headset and switched between radio

  channels. By simply flipping switches he could

  monitor the aircraft tactical

  channels. In addition, with the new tactical com

  units, he and his staff could hear everything that was said

  on the helmet radios worn by marine officers and

  NCO'S.

  Since the signals were rebroadcast and

  ultimately picked up by the satellite, they were

  also being monitored in the war room of the White

  House. One of Jake's concerns was that the

  politicians or senior officers would be tempted

  to step into the middle of the operation. Although the Washington

  kibitzers could not communicate on the nets, they could

  quickly get in touch with someone who could, and an order was

  an order, even if ill-considered.

  He would worry about the politicians when the meddling

  started, he decided, not before.

  Doll Hanna was the recon team leader at dairy

  Bravo. He was sitting on a biological

  warhead assembly plant and he knew it. There

  wasn't a cow hi sight, two clean, modern

  dairy trucks sat near the entrance to the barn, and

  Hanna could hear air conditioners running. And the

  Cuban Army was guarding the place.

  From where he lay he could see two soldiers in

  cloth hats with rifles in their arms standing in front

  of the main entrance. He knew that there were men

  on the door in the rear of the building and in the old

  thatch-roofed farmhouse nearby.

  Doll Hanna touched the transmit button on his

  radio. "Willie, you take the two guys on the

  north side. Fred, you got the farmhouse.

  Goose, these two on the main entrance."

  All three men acknowledged.

  Doll was wearing his night-vision goggles so he could

  see Goose crawling behind the milk trucks, then

  under them, working his way toward the entrance. It was eerie

  watching Goose sneak along, knowing the guards

  couldn't see him.

  Taking out two men was a challenge. Either one could

  raise the alarm.

  Goose moved like he had all night.

  He didn't, Doll Hanna well knew. The

  Osprey was out there now circling, but it wouldn't come in

  until he called the area clear. Still, the plane

  only had so much fuel and the Cubans wouldn't stay

  quiet forever.

  In fact, a truckload of soldiers could come

  rolling in here any minute. The troops in the

  Osprey, when they arrived, would set up a

  perimeter to keep the Cuban military

  away.

  "Doll, this is Fred. I'm going to make some

  noise over here."

  "Okay."

  No doubt Goose and Willie heard that

  transmission. Noise would cause the guards to do

  something. If necessary, Goose and Willie could just

  shoot them down.

  Hanna heard the faint sound of a slamming door come

  from the direction of the farmhouse.

  The guards near the main door to the dairy got to their

  feet, looked at each other, then started toward the

  house. One stopped, told the other to stay, then went

  on with his weapon at the ready. As he went around the

  truck out of sight of the guard at the door, Goose

  got him with a knife.

  Then Goose waited.

  The man at the door called out to his friend.

  Nothing.

  The guard looked worried. He called again, got

  no answer, then walked forward twenty feet or so.

  He stopped, cocked his head, stood looking into the

  darkness and trying to hear over the hum of the big air

  conditioners.

  He was standing like that when Goose stepped out from

  behind the truck and threw a knife. The guard

  dropped his rifle and pitched forward on his face.

  Hanna got up, trotted for the door of the barn.

  He passed Goose, who was bending over the second

  guard checking to make sure he was dead. Carefully

  Doll eased the door open and looked inside.

  There were people inside, all right, behind transparent

  plastic curtains that formed biological seals.

  They were wearing full body-and-head CBW suits,

  so they looked like spacemen walking around in there between

  trays of cultures and rows of worktables.

  They had apparently heard nothing above the noise of the

  air-ventilation system, which was a loud, steady hum.

  Doll eased his head back. The people in there would have

  to wait until the experts arrived.

  Major Carlos Corrado walked onto the

  runway of the Cienfuegos Air Base. The

  runway lights were off and the night was fairly dark

  considering that two hangars and at least five

  aircraft were ablaze. He could hear people shouting, about

  fire, about water, about missiles, about staying under

  cover. Straining hard he could hear several cruise

  missiles 'and airplanesup there in the

  darksamerican airplanes, because in order to save

  money, the Cuban Air Force, the

  Fuerza Aerea Revolucionaria,

  did not fly at night.

  What was happening? Where was the war?

  Carlos Corrado had no illusions about the

  difficulties involved in engaging the American

  military. His MiGo-29, a stripped Soviet

  export version, had only the most rudimentary of

  electronic detection equipment and lacked any

  active countermeasures. And his GCI site was

  probably in the same condition as the burning hangars

  behind him.

  If he left his radar off he would not beacon on the

  Americans" detection equipment. And he would be

  electronically blind.

  Perhaps if he stayed low ...

  Another cruise missile roared overhead and dove

  into the last undamaged hangar. The 750-pound

  warhead rocked

  the base, then the hangar collapsed outward, its

  walls silhouetted black against the yellowish white

  fireball caused by the warhead.

  Well, if the Americans were pounding Cienfuegos,

  they must be pulverizing Jose Marti International in

  Havana.

  Havana. The war would be in Havana, so

  that was where he would go.

  The V-22 Osprey t
win-engine tiltrotor

  assault transport was the ultimate flying

  machine, or so Rita Moravia liked to tell her

  husband, Toad Tarkington. It hovered like a

  helicopter and flew like an airplane, operated from

  the deck of an airborne assault ship, and was at

  its best after the sun went down.

  So here she was, in the pilot's seat of a V-22

  on her way to a ballistic-missile silo in the

  Matanzas Province of central Cuba with 24

  combat-ready marines, loaded for bear. She had

  made a vertical takeoff from

  Kearsarge

  and was now thundering along at two thousand feet over the

  Cuban countryside at 250 knots, navigating

  by GPS and monitoring the forward-looking infrared

  display (Flir), which revealed the countryside

  ahead as if the sun were shining down from a cloudless

  sky.

  Rita's copilot was Captain Crash Wade,

  USMC, who earned his nickname in an unfortunate

  series of ski adventures, not flying accidents.

  Wade paid careful attention to the multi-function

  displays (Mfd's), computer presentations

  of everything the pilots needed to know, on the instrument

  panel in front of him.

  Rita was paying careful attention to the voice on the

  radio, which was that of Asel Ty vek, NCO in

  charge of the marine recon team at silo number

  two. Rita didn't know his real name, just his call

  sign, Blue One.

  "Old Rover, this is Blue One. I want you

  to hold four minutes out while we get some ordnance

  on this LZ. It's sizzling hot."

  "Old Rover, Roger."...Rita keyed the intercom.

  "Okay, Crash, do a holding pattern."

  "How come we got the hot LZ"..."...CRASH wanted

  to know.

  "Just lucky, I guessea"...Rita replied, and

  selected an intercom button that would allow her

  to talk to the lieutenant in the cargo bay with his

  troops.

  Asel Tyvek and Jamail Ali were side by side

  in the ditch, just thirty yards or so from the barn. The

  other two members of the team were also in the ditch, but

  well left and right.

  "We ought to get in the barnea"...Ali whispered, "in

  case the Cubans want to get in there too."

  "Man, those little boards ain't gonna

  protect anybody from anything. You just be ready in

  case the Cubans start diving into this damned ditch with

  us."

  "Listen, I can hear our guys coming."

  Tyvek strained his ears. Yep, he could just detect

  the distinctive beat of chopper rotors. "Snake

  One, Blue Oneea"...he whispered into his radio.

  "Cuban troops all around the barn. At least

  two tanks, eight or nine trucks, a couple

  hundred men. We're in a ditch near the barn."

  "Got your head down?"

  "Yeah."

  Tyvek could hear the choppers distinctly now. He

  eased his weapon up, put his finger on the safety.

  The Cubans were going to be looking for cover very

  shortly, and he didn't want to share the ditch.

  The SuperCobras eased up over the tree line,

  barely moving. Tyvek knew what was going to happen

  next, and it did. He heard the roar as

  Hellfire antiarmor missiles screamed toward

  the tanks, and he heard the explosions as they hit.

  He lifted his head above the ditch line for a quick

  peek. The tanks were smoking hulks. Even as he

  watched, more missiles tore into the trucks.

  377

  Not a standing figure could be seen. Everyone was on the

  ground, crawling or lying still.

  The two SuperCobras came closer. The noise

  of their engines was quite plain now. The flex

  three-barreled 20mm cannons opened up and

  rockets shot forward from the pylons under the stubby

  wings.

  The men in the yard realized they couldn't stay where they

  werethe area was a killing zone. Some jumped up and

  ran for the ditch. Fortunately few of them seemed

  to have weapons in their handsthe attack had caught them

  by surprise.

  "Here they comeea"...Tyvek shouted, and opened up on the

  men closest to the ditch. He couldn't shoot them fast

  enough. Men dashed for the cover of the ditch as he and

  Ali and the other two poured fire into them and the

  SuperCobras lashed the area with ordnance.

  Tyvek spoke into the voice-activated mike on

  his helmet-mounted radio. "We're gonna need

  some help, Old Rover. Whenever you can get here."

  Something heavy fell across Tyvek's legs. He

  spun and fired at the same time, but the man was already

  dead: Ali had shot him.

  "They're going into the barnff"...Ali shouted. He fired

  a whole magazine at three men trying

  to get through the front door. One of the men disappeared

  inside.

  Jamail Ali scrambled over the edge of the ditch and

  ran for the barn while Tyvek screamed at the

  SuperCobra gunners not to shoot him.

  "Snake One Four, this is Orange

  One."...Richard Merriweather let go of the mike and

  waited for an answer from the SuperCobra inbound

  to silo six.

  "Orange One, Snake One Four."

  "Man, we're on the wrong side of this river or

  creek five or six clicks south of the LZ.

  How about seeing if you can find us."

  "Are you standing up?"

  "In plain sight."

  Merriweather and his partner, Kirb Handy, stepped

  away from the trees. With their night-vision goggles,

  the SuperCobra crewmen should have no trouble seeing

  two men standing in an open field, and they didn't.

  Both the helicopters settled to earth and the marines

  on the ground ran to them.

  The pilot of the lead chopper opened his canopy as

  Merriweather ran over. "Where are the other guys?"

  "Haven't seen them or talked to them. Don't

  know."

  "Seen any bad guys?"

  "Nope. How about a ride over toward the barn?"

  "Sit on the skid and grab hold. We run

  into trouble, you gotta get off if we drop down

  low."

  Merriweather gave the pilot a thumbs-up and

  arranged himself on the skid. Handy was clinging to the

  skid on the other side.

  The chopper came slowly into a hover, then dipped

  its nose and began moving forward. Merriweather held

  on for dear life as the rotor downwash and

  slipstream tore at his clothing, helmet, and gear,

  and threatened to rip the night vision goggles from his

  head.

  What a stupid idea this was! How in hell had

  they ended up four miles south of the goddamned landing

  zone? If he ever again laid eyes on that son of a

  bitch who flew the Here, he was going to stomp his

  ass.

  Bryne and McCormickthose two were missing.

  If they were okay surely they would have checked in on

  the radio. Maybe their parachutes didn't open.

  Maybe they fell into that river. Maybe the

  Cubans captured them as soon as they hit the

  ground. Maybe, maybe,
maybe...

  He could see the barn now. The chopper was just a few

  feet above the trees, making an approach to the area

  right in front of the damn thing. The other chopper was

  flying over the trees, three or four hundred

  yards awayclose, but not too close.

  Nobody in sight around the barn. Not a soul.

  Merriweather jumped when the chopper was three feet

  off the ground, and fell on his face. He got up,

  staggered out from under the rotor blast.

  Handy appeared at his elbow.

  The glow of a cigarette tip showed in the door.

  Someone sitting there!

  Merriweather froze, his M-16 at the ready.

  A marine sat in the open door smoking d

  cigarette. His face and neck were coated with green

  and brown camo grease. His helmet and night-vision

  goggles lay in the dirt beside him.

  Merriweather walked over to the man, who said, "No

  one around."

  "Where's Bryne?"

  McCormick nodded toward the east. "Over there about

  a hundred yards. Parachute streamed, backup

  didn't open."

  "Your radio?"

  "Broke. Bryne's got smashed."...McCormick

  stood, took a last drag on the cigarette, and

  tossed it away. "Been sitting here waiting for you.

  The place is deserted, quiet as a graveyard."

  "Too bad about Bryne."

  "Left two little kids. Too fucking bad."

  The interior of the barn was large, empty, and dark.

  Merriweather used a flashlight, looked in eve

  caret you corner, inspected the ceiling, the floor,

  the nooks and crannys.

  Then he spoke into his boom microphone.

  "Let's get the Osprey into the LZ, set up a

  perimeter."

  Through her night-vision goggles, Rita Moravia

  could see the silo two landing zone and the hovering

  SuperCobras plain as day as she made her

  approach in the Osprey. She saw bodies lying

  everywhere, still-warm bodies radiating heat, and she

  saw living men. She transitioned to hovering flight

  and lowered the Osprey toward the ground between the

  choppers. A cloud of dirt and dust rose up,

  obscuring everything. She went on instruments.

  On the intercom she told the lieutenant to get

  ready.

  As soon as the wheels hit, the marines in

  back charged out the door of the Osprey and kept right

  on going for fifty yards, when they went down on their

  stomachs with their rifles at the ready.

  Rita didn't wait to see what was going to happen

  next. As soon as her crew chief said the last

  marine was out, she lifted the Osprey into the air,